


Erosion

by Draikinator



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 21:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2403029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draikinator/pseuds/Draikinator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cross-posted: Kenny's getting older. The more stress he's under, the more he comes to rely on his alter-ego, Mysterion. It starts with blue flowers and ends with red ones. Kyle's POV, K2. Multichap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rustling

**Erosion**

I wake to rustling.

I rub the sleep from my eyes, looking over to my left in time to see Kenny rip off his orange parka and pull his Mysterion cloak from his bag.

"Dude, what are you doing?" I whisper, sitting up. He looks back at me, shhing and gesturing towards Stan as he pulls on his costume. He pulls his face mask on, adjusting the eyes and pulling the hood up over his head.

"I have to go. It's important." He says, struggling to keep his gruff Mysterion voice and whisper at the same time. I frown.

"What? What's important? Is it Karen?" I know Kenny likes to dress up as Mysterion to comfort his sister, but she's halfway across town, Kenny and Stan are at my house for sleepover. He shakes his head.

"No. Don't worry about it." I know Kenny likes to play superhero. He takes it really seriously. He opens the window and slips out, sliding down the gutter. I watch him go, then get up and close the window. It's too cold out for this. He'll be back eventually. I go back to bed.

* * *

 

The bell rings, and I slam my locker door shut. The halls are emptying quickly, and I catch sight of Kenny loitering near the bathrooms. My class isn't far, and I stop by him for a moment.

"Kenny! Dude, where'd you go?"

He shrugs under his parka, and I frown. "I got a call," he finally concedes. I frown harder, if that's something you can do.

"That's not a great answer, dude. You know we worry about you when you do that stuff." He just shrugs again.

"So don't, dude. I'll be fine. I will  _always_  be fine."

I run my hands through my hair, "You'll get yourself killed one of these days dude. You're digging yourself in deeper and deeper."  _Another_  shrug, and he turns away, towards his class.

"I can't die," he mumbles through his coat and a sigh escapes me before I can stop it. He's so frustrating. I can't tell if his immortality complex is a joke or a delusion. But it's definitely annoying.

* * *

 

I inhale the enticing scent of my mother's cook with a pleasant sigh. I always forget how hungry I am until it's nearly time for dinner. I'm doing my homework in my room, but the scent still reaches me, all the way up here. The doorbell rings, and I'm pulled away from my thoughts.

I put my book down beside me and walk downstairs to see who it is, but Ike has already opened it. Kenny's standing at the door and speaking to him, when he notices me and brightens with a wave.

"Ike, bubala, who is it?" I hear my mother call from the other room.

"It's just Kenny!" Ike calls, obviously somewhat miffed to have been interupted while he was watching tv. Kenny seems to frown, but it's hard to tell under his parka.

"Oh, is it! Kenny, dear, why didn't you tell me you were coming over before I started dinner?" She responds and Kenny mumbles out a response. I take a cue automatically and translate before she can ask him to repeat himself.

"He says he's sorry!" I call, "He also says he didn't know he was going to be coming over." Kenny mumbles something else and I add, "He also says it's okay, he can doesn't need to eat."

"Oh, nonsense sweetie!" My mother says, stepping out of the kitchen to look at him, "You and Kyle are both growing boys. You know you're always welcome here Kenny, I'll make you some macaroni." She steps back into the kitchen as Kenny thanks her emphatically.

Ike goes back to the couch, and Kenny turns to look at me. His face is obscured, but I can tell something is wrong. I frown, "Hey, Mom, Kenny and me are going to go up to my room until dinner's ready, okay?"

"Sure, bubala, try not to get to invested in anything though, you've only got about five minutes!" I take my cue and he follows me up. As soon as we're in, I shut the door and turn around. he won't look at me.

"What's wrong, dude?" I ask, and he winces.

"What, can you read me that well?" He mumbles beneath his coat, his hands tugging at the drawstrings of his hood. I frown, step forward and slap his hands away. He still won't look at me. I push his hood off his face and have to stifle a gasp, but I can feel my eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I try to mute my reaction, but it's so hard with bruises blooming all over his face. He still won't look at me.

"Dude..." I whisper, all I can choke out. This is the worst I've ever seen him. This must be because of Mysterion. His stupid night time vigilante bullshit did this too him. I can't stop my hand from touching the fresh cuts on his face and the way his lip is  _still_  bleeding. I feel anger bubbling up in my chest, and I wrench my hand away, whispering fiercely, "Dude! This Mysterion shit has to stop  _now._  This is  _not_  acceptable." He blinks and finally looks at me.

"Mysterion? Shit, dude, no. My dad did this."

I'm not sure what to say. I can feel my face go from anger to shock and horror and pity all in one fluid motion beyond my control. His eyes drop again, and he shrugs, intent on staring at my carpet as he tugs his hood back up over his head.

"It's not a big deal," He starts, "I usually don't get caught up in my folk's fighting, you know. He was... you know. Mad. My folks left their heroin out last night and I cleaned up after them. He was pissed off because he couldn't find it."

I take a deep breath, "I'm sorry, dude." He tightens the drawstrings against his face.

"Like I said. It's not a big deal. I've had worse."

"That's... not really reassuring, dude."

"I just don't want social services involved. I don't want your mom to call them."

I frown, "She won't call. She doesn't get involved with other people's family's."

He seems to sigh, and his shoulders sink, the pressure relieved, "Good. Because I'm  _really_  hungry, and I can't eat with this on."

"Kenny, Kyle, dears! It's time for dinner!" My mother calls up the stairs. He brightens immediately, sliding past me to open the door and start down the stairs without me.

"Thank you so much, missus Brofloski!" I hear him say. There's a sharp intake of breath, he must have pulled his hood down. I wince, and follow him.

* * *

 

I'm outside, during lunch. I'd thought to take a walk, since they were serving pork today and I couldn't eat it. Watching everyone else eat was just making me hungry. I catch a flash of purple out of the corner of my eye and look over. Kenny is in his Mysterion costume, with his little sister. He hands her something, and she jumps up to hug him. She runs off and he watches her. He notices me, and I look away quickly. I know he brings her lunch money. He used to hide it in her backpack and tell her it was from their parents, I knew, because he told me about it. Recently, though, he's been bringing it to her in costume. I wonder why.

I turn back and he's already gone.

* * *

 

The doorbell rings. It's Kenny again. His hood is down, and new bruises blossom on his face. I'm not sure if he's simply no longer ashamed to show it, or that with the blue black mark erupting from his left eye he'd be unable to hide it, even with his hood. He's smiling, but barely.

"Hey, Kyle." He starts. I open the door, and he steps in. "Hey, missus Brofloski!" he yells. I shake my head.

"She's not here," I tell him, "It's just me. They're at a parent teacher conference with Ike."

"Oh," he says, and I can see the crestfallen look in his eyes. He spends a lot of time at my house. I think he likes the attention my mother gives him. I'm glad she does. I try not to talk about Kenny's home life because he obviously doesn't want to, but I'm glad to know he feels safe coming when things get to bad. "So it's just us?" He asks, cocking his head to the side."

I nod. He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. "You didn't eat yet, did you?" He asks. 'Can I have something to eat?' is what he means, I know, but he clings pretty desperately to the polite act.

"When was the last time you ate, Kenny?" His eyes quickly move away from mine, and he shifts uncomfortably, "Kenny, dude. I know you give Karen your lunch money. You hardly ever eat at home and you don't eat at school anymore."

He shrugs, "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big deal?" I ask, incredulous, "Dude, you'll starve yourself."

He sighs, "I can't-"

"Die," I finish, spitting the word. He looks ashamed, almost guilty, "Yeah, you can, dude. We all can. Stop it."

He just shrugs, and moves toward the kitchen, taking my reaction as a yes. He still hasn't answered me. I drop it.

* * *

 

He smiles. I don't.

"Kenny!" I yell. He's pinned against the lockers by what I think is a wolf. It's blue, though, so I can't be sure it's a real wolf and not, say, a shapeshifter, or physical hologram or something else I don't quite understand yet.

"Kyle, I can't die!" He yells back, as the creature rips his head off with its jaw. His body spasms violently, then falls limp. I can feel my body shaking, in abject horror.

"Y-you bastard!" I hiss at the thing as it drops back onto its feet, tossing Kenny's battered head to the side. I feel tears well up in the corners of my eyes. "Kenny- K-" I hear myself mumble, beyond my control. It takes a step forward. I turn and run.

xxxxxxxx

AN/ It's been a long time since I've written a multichap, and I really hope you can enjoy it! I'll do my best to update timely. Yes, it will mostly be vignettes strung together. There's a story, though. K2? Maybe. Probably. You all know I simply can't resist.


	2. Butterflies

**Erosion**

I sit at my desk and tap the end of my pencil against my desk, annoyed. Where is Kenny? I vaguely recalled seeing him this morning, but that had been the last time. He was already doing so poorly in school, he really shouldn't be skipping like this.

I try to cast out the thought of him and focus on my work, but it's hard not to think about Kenny. I always find myself dwelling on the way the bruises on his face burst outward like fireworks and the way my stomach turns when I see the way he winces and shudders to the touch. I think about the way he tugs the drawstrings of his hood when he's nervous, the way he cares about his sister. The way he always shows up at my house, smiling even with fresh marks across his body, coloured bright and fierce and fresh. The brightness in his eyes despite the dullness behind them.

* * *

 

The next day I confront him before class outside our lockers. He has his hood up.

"Dude, did you skip yesterday?" He shakes his head. I frown, "So where were you? You weren't in class."

"I died," he says, matter of factly through the thick fabric. I groan. The traces of guilt from before are gone.

"Oh really? You died? Are you a ghost now, then?" I ask, barely able to contain myself. His distinct disinterest in protecting his own life infuriates me. Doesn't he know how upset me, and Stan and even Cartman and  _everyone_  would be if he REALLY died? Does he think it's FUNNY to joke about? Because it's not. It's really not.

He shakes his head, "No. A dog tore my head off. You were there. You don't remember."

"Of course I don't remember. It didn't  _happen_ , Kenny!" I cry, and tear his hood off. I fall silent. New bruises bloom upward from his neck, yellow and blue and purple. He pulls his hood up and tightens the drawstings quickly.

"I died," he says again, shakily, "you just don't remember. You  _never_  remember." He pushes past me, and I lose him in the crowded hallway.

* * *

 

"I'm pretty sure Kenny is getting more obsessed with his immortality complex," I say.

Stan shrugs beside me, mashing buttons on the co-op game we're playing, "I dunno, dude, he's always been into that."

"No, Stan, I think it's getting worse," I say, reloading as I duck behind an in game barrier, "I almost never see him not covered in bruises and cuts anymore. I think he's wearing his cape more, too."

Stan snorts, "Yeah, I figured he was still doing that. I never really see him around anymore."

"You don't?" I ask, surprised. I had assumed he showed up at Stan's house just as much as mine.

"Nah, I don't have any classes with him like you do."

I pause the game.

Stan looks over at me expectantly, but I just stare at the controller. I'm not even sure why.

"Are you okay, man?" He asks hesitantly. I swallow, and close my eyes.

"Yeah," I say, opening them, and unpausing the game, "I'm fine. It's fine."

He looks at me for a moment, obviously still concerned, but an on screen explosion demands his attention and we return to playing the game in silence.

* * *

 

I see Kenny at the store. I'm grocery shopping with my mother, being the helpful son, and I see his orange parka move down one of the aisles. It's impossible to miss, it's so bright.

I tell my mother I'll be right back and move after him to say hello. Cutting around the end of the row of pastas, I see him standing in front of a rack of instant macaroni, holding his sister's hand. I immediately feel self conscious looking at his cart- cheap, generic brand soda, poptarts, instant noodles and day old bread. I think about my own family's cart, filled with kosher meats and snacks and milk and  _real_  food.

I turn away and go back to my mother before he sees me.

* * *

 

"So wait, if X is four, then what is Y?"

"Kenny, I'm not doing your homework  _for_  you, work it out."

He taps his pencil against the book and I can see his brow furrow against the faded yellow-brown bruising in concentration. I wish I could just wipe the colours away with my hands; slide my fingers over his face and brush the cuts and bruises away like wet paper.

"...Six?" He ventures, looking up at me. I move my eyes away from his face quickly.

"No, five."

"Oh." He looks disappointed, and scribbles out something on his paper.

"Maybe if you didn't skip school so much," I say, barely able to mask the frustration in my voice, "You wouldn't need me to tutor you."

"I don't skip," He says nonchalantly, writing. Trying the problem again, I think, "I can't come if I'm dead."

I slam my book shut and stare at him. I can't even make words. He doesn't look at me, but I can see something in his face. Annoyance? Guilt? Disappointment? It's impossible to tell. But it's there, beneath the bruises.

"Kenny-" I start, but he cuts me off.

"I'm not asking you to believe me," He says, without looking up, "but I respect you to much to lie to you."

I give him a hard look, but concede, opening my book back up. Butterflies dance around my chest, and  _I respect you to much to lie to you_ echoes in my head and in my heart, bouncing off their wings.

* * *

 

I'm flipping channels when a familiar purple flashes across the screen, and I set the remote down. The local news is doing another bit on Mysterion. Someone caught some footage of him stopping a robbery downtown. He crashes through a window and into a man with a gun. I'm blown away; I hadn't realized he was doing things  _that_  dangerous in his cape. There's two other men near him, and I think I can see one more towards the back of the video, a large dark blob.

Kenny ducks as the first one fires, shooting the other behind him. When did I last blink? He kicks at the ankles of the shooter and he crashes the the ground, just in time for Kenny to smash his elbow into the man's throat, before diving off screen after the large dark blob in the back. I only catch a glimpse, but I think for a moment it looks like Cartman in his stupid Coon costume- but that doesn't make sense. Unlike Kenny, who hasn't hung up his cape once over the past 9 years, Cartman never wore it again. The video cuts out and the reporter comes back on, praising Kenny's martial art prowess. That I had never realized he had.

I flip open my phone and text him.

 _Dude, you were on the news!_  I say, as the reporter drones on about crime rates.

 _yeah? again?_  he responds after a minute.

 _Again? Are you on the news a lot?_  I type back, surprised. The tv plays a shot of the criminals from the video being led into the county jail.

_yeah, i think so. i mean our tv is broke but i hear im on the news a lot._

I look up, thinking about that. Why haven't I seen it before?

_It looked really dangerous, dude. Those guys had guns._

_its not a huge deal kyle_ , he responds. I wonder if he thinks that because of his immortality complex, but I don't really want to talk about that right now.

_I just worry about you dude. If you get killed out there I won't forgive you._

_trust me, u got nothing to worry about._ he responds, and before I have a chance to reply, he follows it up with  _hey, u busy? wanna play cod?_

He obviously doesn't want to talk about it either, so I let it go.  _Yeah, come on over, I got snacks in the fridge_ , I send instead of all the things I want to say.

 _k,_  he responds, and I set my phone down on the table beside the couch.

* * *

 

I hear my window open and a thud. I shoot up in bed, startled, confused, and alarmed. Who is it? Cartman? Some psychotic bullshit again?

I flip on the lamp at my bedside and see purple; then red. It's Kenny in his Mysterion costume, or, at least, what remains of it. His costume is shredded and he's leaking blood all over my carpet. He's collapsed, but he pushes himself back up to his knees as I jump out of bed, cursing.

"Dude! Holy shit, Kenny, are you okay!?" I cry, horrified. He sucks in a few raspy breaths and chokes.

"I can't die yet," He coughs in between shaky breaths, blood spittle dribbling from the corners of his mouth as I pull him up, "I don't want him to forget-" He says, clearly delirious. He's not making sense. He struggles to his feet, leaning on me.

"Dude, holy shit, what happened?! You're bleeding- youre bleeding a  _lot-_ " My voice is shaking, and I can hear the fear in it.

"I just need a p-patch job-" He says, trembling fingers pulling up his shirt to reveal a long gash on his stomach, "This is th- the- the only fatal one- the others ar f-fine-" He stammers, tripping, as I carry him to the bathroom and drop him on tpo of the toilet seat. He leans back, coughing.

"Mom!" I scream down the stairs, horrified, "MOM! Call 911!" I yell, and I hear Kenny struggle to his feet before falling back down.

"Dude!" He says between coughs, "No! What are you doing?!"  
"Kenny! You're going to  _die_!" I yell at him, and I can feel hot tears prickling up in my eyes.

"No!" He cries, frustrated, "I don't want- fuck- I came here for help!" He says, obviously angry. I throw open the medicine cabinet door, looking for something I can use to stop the bleeding. Something. Anything.

I hear him swear behind me, I hear my parents feet on the stairs- I hear him pull something from his belt and turn around with just enough time to see him stick a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger.


	3. Art

**Erosion**

I scrub the blood from my carpet, but it's not coming out. I'm so  _angry._  I can't believe Kenny would tumble in here in his  _stupid costume_  in the  _middle of the night_  and ooze blood everywhere and then just  _leave_  when I wasn't looking. I'm part worried that he's bleeding out in an alley somewhere and part furious that he left me here to scrub the red stains from the floor alone.

I had already called him a dozen times. To tell him to come help me clean the carpet, I told myself, not because I was worried. He had, after all, seemed fine when he had left. The memory was vague and hazy with sleepiness, but he had definitely been okay. It was hard not to worry about Kenny, though.

Eventually I gave up. It wasn't going to come out. I should have known that initially, but I had had to try. I tried to imagine my mother's fury when she saw the huge red stains stretched out from my window to the hallway. I tried not to think about how much it would cost to be replaced.

* * *

 

Kenny was in school this morning, but Cartman wasn't. Kenny seemed nervous, twitchy, and exhausted. I found myself confronting him at lunch, as he was stuffing his Mysterion costume back into his backpack behind the gym.

"Kenny, dude. Are you okay?" I ask him, and he looks up.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" He says, but he won't look me in the eye. Again.

"Well, you were bleeding a lot last night, and today-" He doesn't let me finish. I must have stricken a cord, because he drops he backpack and jumps to his feet, shouting.

"You remember last night!?" He yells, and I can see something in his eyes. Fear?

"Uh, yeah?" I laugh, nervously, "What, should I not? Drug me or something?"

He paces in a short circle then comes closer, tugging his hood down. I don't flinch this time, looking at the scarlet red scrapes on his face, the purple bruises the same colour as his favourite costume. "What do you remember?" He says sternly.

"I, uh," I stammer, confused, "You climbed in my window in your Mysterion costume, you fell down, you got blood all in my carpet and then when I went to call an ambulance you just bolted dude."

He runs his hands through his hair and lets out a long breath, "Okay, wow," He says, "You remember a lot more than usual. I can't believe you actually still had blood on your carpet…" I shake my head, confused.

"Dude, what? Seriously, are you okay? Because you were bleeding a lot…" He smiles, which makes me uncomfortable.

"Exactly!" He cries, and tugs up his jacket, showing his midriff. It's clean, the skin lace with scars, but unbroken. "See? Nothing. How did I heal so fast?"

I furrow my brow and think about it, "I dunno. Maybe I just… imagined it. I dunno." he looks angry.

"No, dude, you didn't imagine it. I died." I groan as he says it and he grabs me by the shoulders, "Kyle." he says, stern, serious, "I shot myself in the head in your bathroom and I died. Where's my injuries, Kyle!?" I shake my head and push him away.

"Shut up, dude! You are not fucking immortal!"

He growls and covers his eyes with his hands, then drops them, "You've seen me die a million fucking times!" He yells suddenly, "You've seen giant fucking robot dinosaurs and imaginary universes! You've met the actual literal Satan! Why the hell is it so hard to believe?"

He has a point.

"I... I dunno." I say. I think about him leaving the room, and I think about how clean his face is. I think about the bright bruises rising from his neckline. I don't believe him, but I want to. His face is so close to mine, his eyes, their bright colours overtaking the usual dullness of his spirit, begging me to believe him, despite my memories, despite all logic. He tastes of cigarettes and blood, and usually, I would hate it, but he's so warm, and under taste of death I can taste something sweet- and I realize with a start that I am kissing him.

He doesn't pull away, though.

* * *

 

He spends the night at my house. It's a Friday night, so I'm not worried. We stay up all night, and he tells me about all his deaths. I don't believe him, but I want to, and with each story, each gruesomely detailed death he recalls so intimately I wish I did, a little harder. I don't. But I pretend I do, because it means so much to him.

He tells me Cartman is upset that Mysterion has been on the news so much lately, and wants to play superheroes again for his own ego. Kenny thinks he'll stop in a few months.

* * *

 

I drop him off at home, but as soon as the door opens, his father is yelling. I can smell the drink on his breath from here and I crinkle my nose in disgust. Kenny yells back, something about meth, and unlike the many times I turned away in the past, I grab the back of his coat and yank him backward. He stumbles out and I point at my car, unable to even vocalize. His father stares at me, surprised. Before he can say anything, I slam the door, and turn back to Kenny, who looks more surprised than his father.

"You're staying with me tonight." I say, matter of factly. He doesn't look upset, and just nods.

"I have to tuck Karen in," He says, patting his backpack, slung over his left shoulder. This time, I nod.

* * *

 

"You're beautiful," I say, tracing the thin red lines crisscrossing his face. He winces as I brush into blues and purples, and his whole face blooms red, beneath the scars and freckles.

"No-" He starts, but my fingers trace the thin lines of his lips, entranced by their pale colour. He is a painting, full of colours I see nowhere else in the world. The pale dirty sunshine colour of his hair, the storm blue-grey of his eyes, the Mysterion purple that dots the nooks and crannies of his body. He is a painting, he is a sculpture, he is a film, he is an orchestra. He is art.

He does not flinch when I kiss him. He touches my hair, and he tastes like blood and paint.

* * *

 

I'm downtown, drinking with Stan at a bar we like, trying to muster up the courage to tell him about Kenny, when I see something move along the rooftops outside. I step out, and look up, and I know it's him. I feel my heart swell, and I wonder where he's going- before I notice it's not where he's going, it's where he's coming from. Someone is chasing him, lagging behind, heavy and slow. Cartman.

They're almsot out of sight, and I don't even pause to yell back at Stan, I just take off, my converse slamming into the moist pavement loudly as I desperately try not to lose sight of them.

Kenny is obviously faster, and he's losing the fatass, but Cartman stops. I think he's given up, but Kenny stumbles suddenly, stopping. I squint in the darkness, and there's a glimmer of metal in Cartman's fat hand. My breath catches in my throat. Kenny stumbles toward the edge of the building, catches himself for just a moment, and tumbles over.

 _KENNY CAN'T DIE_ , my mind screams, but I don't believe it, and all my mouth screams is "Kenny!"

Suddenly I'm running again, desperate, screaming, begging him to be okay. I reach the alleyway too late. He's spread out over top of a closed dumpster like an angel in an old painting, limbs splayed to the sides at unnatural angles,blood oozing out form beneath him in a river. He stares upward. I scream.


	4. Air

**Erosion**

I don't know why I'm shaking. I feel horrible, and frightened and uncomfortable and it just doesn't go away. I don't know why I'm standing in this alley, buzzed and confused. Stan pats me on the back and leads me back toward the bar.

Am I afraid to tell him about Kenny? I never thought I would be this afraid, not of Stan. Never of Stan. And yet.

I spill the first shot all over the table and Stan orders me another. This one makes it down, and the warmth in my throat stills my shaking hands, a little. Stan looks concerned, but he doesn't push it.

"I'm dating Kenny," I blurt out suddenly, my head collapsing into my hands. Stan makes what sounds like a startled noise, but I can't see his face.

I feel his hand on my shoulder. "Hey, dude, come on, look at me," he says, and I peek out of the sides of my hands. I can feel the heat on my face, but he's smiling. "Good for you dude. Can't say I'm not surprised you'd settle for white trash like Kenny, but what, did you think I was gonna be upset or something?" I pushed my face back into my hands. Being nervous about Stan was pretty stupid.

"Sorry..." I mumble, unsure of what else to say.

He passes me another drink, "Mazel tov." I chuckle.

"Asshole," I say, and take it from him.

* * *

 

Kenny isn't in school today. Cartman is, looking dangerously triumphant. He doesn't talk to me, but I see the glances he cuts toward me constantly, and I wonder what they mean. He's gone before the end of the day.

* * *

 

He doesn't come to the door this time, but the window, tapping on it with a gloved hand. I'm startled and drop my book, knocking over the glass of water I'd been sipping while I studied, and I franticly throw a dirty t-shirt at the spill, jumping up to fumble at the window lock and let Kenny in.

He drops onto the still red-stained floor, and I frown at his muddy boots. He seems confused by my look of disapproval on my face before he realizes his Mysterion boots are filthy, and makes a rushed apology, slipping them off. It's a bit late, but I give him credit and let it go. He tugs off his hood and pulls his mask down around his neck, his hair matted with sweat. He smells awful.

"Where have you been?" I ask, and he lets out his breath, falling back onto my bed.

"Cartman is trying to kill me," He says quietly. I'm taken aback.

"What? Why? Aren't you the only one who likes the fat son of a bitch?"

"Only barely," He sighs, "It's-" he stops suddenly, looks at me, then goes back to staring at the ceiling, "It's nothing. He'll stop eventually. He knows he can't."

I frown further, if that's possible, "He knows?"

Kenny closes his eyes.

"Eric's always known," I notice the name change, and that strikes me as strange, but he continues, "He just doesn't care. He's trying to kill me for real over a stupid grudge..." He trails off.

"A grudge?" I say, trying to encourage him to elaborate. His eyes open suddenly, as he realizes what he's said.

"Like I said," he snorts gruffly, sitting up and taking his cape off over his head, "It's not a big deal. Nothing you need to worry about." Again, I don't believe him, but I want to. I let it go like the blood and dirt on my floor.

My books forgotten, I sit beside him, and pull his mask up and over his head. It's hard to tell if his face is red from the obvious workout he's just been through, or from the way I'm touching his face, tracing the fresh cuts. I decide it's embarrassment when he brushes my hand away, eyes cast downward. I press my lips gently to the blue-black mark beneath his left eye, and he doesn't wince. I wish I could kiss them away. I wish I could make that spot perfect, forever, unmarrable.

His hands are on my face now, and I wonder when he took his gloves off. His hands are larger than mine, more calloused than mine, harder, and stronger than mine. He still smells like sweat and blood and he stills tastes like cigarettes and iron, but I don't mind.

* * *

 

I catch a glimpse of him at lunch again, his daily ritual with his sister. He looks tired.

He notices me, but he's in character, and doesn't acknowledge me. Mysterion vanishes over the roof, and I wait for Kenny to shimmy back down the drainage pipe a few minutes later. I shove a paper bag in his arms as soon as he touches the ground, and he looks at it, confused, then at me.

"It's lunch," I tell him, "You're not allowed to not eat anymore." He looks like he's going to protest, but a stern look from me, and he gives up. Kenny never did turn down a free meal. He rips open the bag as we step over to the empty steps outside a fire door, and he pulls out a real sandwich with a look of wonder on his face that just makes me sad. He deserves a life where a turkey sandwich isn't the highlight of his day.

* * *

 

He's not at school again. I text him, but he doesn't respond.

Cartman is there, that same smug smile as he watches me. Every second I can feel his disgusting eyes boring into my skull infuriates me, and finally, I snap, confronting him near my locker between classes.

"What the fuck do you want, fatass!" I yell, jabbing a finger at him.

He just smiles. I hate it when he smiles. I hate the sick fuck and his sick fucking thoughts and I hate how happy they make him. I hate him. I hate him so much.

He just smiles.

"Faggot," He says finally, and I won't lie, I was startled. For all the times he's called me that, it was never more appropriate. "You know, Kahl, I hate you. I really, really do." He whispers, and I decide I don't want to argue with him anymore. I turn and leave.

"I'm gonna make you miserable you butt-fucking Jew!" He shrieks after me, but, seething, I ignore him.

* * *

 

I visit him on saturday, and his sister opens the door. She's a little twig of a thing, thin and frail and fragile looking, but her whole face lights up when she sees me. She grabs me by the flaps of my ushanka, smiling, "Kyle!" She cries out. I'm startled and pull back; I've never really spoken to her and her familiarity makes me uncomfortable.

"Uh, is Kenny here?" I ask nervously, but she just beams up at me.

"Nope, Ken's out right now. You're Kyle though! Kenny told me all about you!" I can feel the blush creep into my face, "He always talks about you."

I bite my lip, and then think, fuck it, "What does he say about me?" I ask hesitantly, stepping inside as she pushes the door shut.

She skips off down the hall, calling behind her, "Welp, he always says yer real  _smart_ , and that yer real  _nice_ ," she says, and I hear shuffling noises. I wonder if she wanted me to follow her, but I stand in their living room awkwardly anyway, "aaaand, he says yer real  _pretty_ ," she says, coming back in the room with a book in her hands. My face must look like a tomato. She giggles, "And he's certainly right, heehee."

"What is that?" I ask, pointing to the book, trying not to let on how flattered and embarrassed I am. She looks at it smiling, then raises a finger to her lips.

"Promise you won't tell my bro!" I nod, and she grins wide, offering it to me with both hands, "He likes to draw," she says quietly, then skips off down the hall again, humming. I take a cue, and drop onto the couch, opening the book.

The first page is me.

Kenny's not the best artist, but he's obviously been practicing. I'm definitely recognizable. It looks like a quick sketch, and I wonder if he didn't draw it while I was in the room, and I wonder why I didn't notice. I touch the graphite thoughtfully and flip the page.

It looks like designs for his Mysterion costume. Was he thinking about redoing it? The next page looks like a redesign of my old Human Kite costume and I chuckle at it. A picture of his mother, his sister. Me. Me. Me.

I'm so entranced by his filled up sketchbook, doodles on both sides of the paper, idle notes and scribbles going upward and sideways along the edges of the paper, that I don't hear the door open. I don't notice anything at all until the sketchbook is yanked from my hands, and I jerk, startled. I can only see the smallest bit of his face peaking out from his hood, but it's bright red as he folds his book closed, eyeing me unhappily.

"Uh-" I stammer immediately, "Shit, Kenny, I'm sorry, Karen gave it to me, and, I just, they're really good, and, I, shit-" he just turns on his heels and heads toward his room. I hop over the couch and follow him, to watch him shove the book between his mattresses.

He looks back at me, but won't look me in the eye. I go to pull his hood down, but he smacks my hand away. I'm somewhat offended, it's not that big a deal.

"Kenny, dude, I'm sorry. I didn't realize it would offend you so bad." He snorts out a long breath, and it sounds odd. Like a sigh, but wrong. I go to pull his hood back again, and he flinches, but lets me.

I cup both hands over my mouth, horrified. The lower half of his face and neck are covered in burns and sticky vomit mixed with blood. I take a step back, and he jolts forward to grab me when I stumble.

"Holy shit dude, what the fuck happened to you!?" I yell, and he makes a shushing motion at me, his eyes darting wildly to the door. I hear a noise from Karen's room, and Kenny quickly shuts his door. I realize quite suddenly that he can't speak.

He leans back against the door, and goes to pull his hood back up, but I stop him, inspecting the wound carefully. It looks filthy- cramming it under his dirty hood certainly wasn't helping. He flinches at my touch, and pulls his phone out of his pocket. After a moment of quick tapping, mine buzzes and he gestures toward it. I open up his message.

_eric spiked my drink with acid_

I'm fucking  _furious_. How could he!? That fucking lard ass was disgusting, and he had gone to far this time. I've seen him feed people their own parents, but Kenny was Cartman's  _friend_. Probably his  _only_  friend. My hands are balled into fists, shaking, but my phone buzzes again. I hadn't even noticed him typing, I'd been so distracted.

_dont worry. it wasnt enough to kill me unfortunately. left my gun at home though. u might wanna go home._

I frown, confused, "Gun? Dude, we have to get you to a hospital." He just shakes his head, before making a gun with his hand and pressing his finger to his temple with a 'bang' motion.

"What!? Holy shit, no, Kenny!" I yell, horrified, and he makes a shushing noise, obviously mad. More typing.

_you said you believed me._

I jab a finger at him, "Dude, I don't believe you enough to let you blow your brains out. Shit. Don't do that to me." He looks exasperated.

_i do it all the time kyle. it doesnt even matter. just go home and ill see u tomorrow._

I'm frustrated, and I'm angry and frankly a bit afraid, "Where is your gun?" He narrows his eyes and shakes his head, before grabbing my jacket and trying to push me out the door. I won't have it, though, and yank out of his grip. My eyes dart over to his mattress, wher ehe had put his sketchbook, and he catches the motion, making a threatening gargle noise from the back of his throat as he steps forward.

I cut in between him and the bed, "No!"

He looks like he wants to fight, but he just pulls up his hood without breaking eye contact, then backs out of his room. I stay rooted to the spot, and hear the door slam. Frustrated, I follow him, but he's already gone.

* * *

 

I see him the next day, like he promised. I catch him at lunch, after he sees his sister, but he stays in his costume, leaning on the wall and pulling a cigarette out of his belt. His face is clean; bruised, but no more burns.

I find it harder and harder not to believe him.

* * *

 

I don't share my last period with Kenny, but I know his last period class is Home Ec, on the other side of campus. I swing by, hoping to offer him a ride home, but I'm stopped, seeing him arguing with Cartman in the hallway. I hang back, out of sight, watching. I'm out of earshot, but I can see Cartman is enjoying the argument, while Kenny looks like he's about ready to start a fistfight. He grabs Cartman by the neck, and just as I'm about to step out and help him, he jumps back, as if his hand were on fire. He stares at Cartman, who's still talking.

He takes a step back, hanging his head. Cartman laughs, and even from here I can hear his nasally booming laugh echo off the lockers. He turns and leaves. Kenny's shaking.

I wonder if I should leave or go talk to him, but my hand squeaks against the locker, and he turns. I freeze like a deer in headlights, and he stares me down, then turns and walks in the opposite direction.

I take the hint, and leave.

000

He's been avoiding me.

I haven't seen him in school in days, and he's never home when I go. I feel a ragged hollowness in my chest, regret. I don't know what else I could have done, but I've obviously crushed him. I told him I believed him, when I didn't. He has every right to be pissed at me. I've spent the last few nights downtown, hoping to catch him 'working.'

Tonight is my lucky night.

I catch a glimpse of purple on a roof as I'm skulking about downtown. It looks like he's taking a smoke break. I usually hate his nicotine habit, but I'm willing to excuse it tonight for convenience. It's only a two story building, so I jog up the fire escape and find him sitting against the ledge at the top. He starts when he sees me, dropping his smoke and jumping up as if he's going to bolt.

"Kenny!"I cry in exasperation, and he freezes, but he still looks like he wants to bolt. He steps toward me hesitantly.

"Mysterion," He hisses, and I frown.

"Dude, why are you avoiding me?" The question seems to make him very uncomfortable. He fidgets from foot to foot.

"I just..." He starts, looking down, "I don't think it's working out, is all." My breath catches in my throat. At first, I'm hurt, but it only takes a second before a comfortable, familiar anger replaces it.

"What the  _fuck_ do you  _mean_  it's  _not working out_?" I practically yell, and he flinches visibly.

"It's... it's..." He looks like he's searching.

"Did fucking Cartman blackmail you?" I spit, and I can see in his eyes I'm right. He doesn't answer. "What did he say? He couldn't have threatened to out you, your reputation is already shit enough," I say, and immediately regret the wording, but keep going, "What did he say?"

He lets out a long breath and adjusts his face mask, "He said if I tried to stop letting him kill me he'd kill you instead. I dunno if he actually would," He rushes as my face pales, "I mean, I wouldn't put it  _past_  him, but at the same time, if he was going to do anything to you I figure he would have done it a  _decade_  ago-" He's practically rambling, and I stop him with my lips.

It feels as if he's going to push away, but I hold him close, and suddenly, he pushes against me, almost desperate, and under the nicotine and blood I can taste fear.

* * *

 

I breathe hard, my eyes shut, trying to keep my heartbeat down. I've followed him again, even thugh I know it's wrng. I know it's wrong and now I'm hiding around the corner, eavesdropping and trying not to have a panic attack. How  _dare_  he. How  _dare_  he speak so calmly of his own death. How  _dare_  he.

"Like I said, I want you to put the barrel of  _that_   _gun_  to your head, and I want you to pull the trigger, Kinny," Cartman says, matter of factly.

"Dude, I do that at least once or twice a week. More now with your shitty half assed assassination attempts that leave me crippled and fucking mangled, you ass," my boyfriend spits.

"Goddamit Kinny! Fine, fuck, give me the gun back."

"What? Fuck you dude, no, it's mine now."

"What did we talk about, Kinny?"

"Fuck. Fine. You don't need it. It can't possibly fucking help you."

"Fine then, Kinny, how would  _you_  go about offing yourself?"

I nearly gag on bile. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate-

"Fuck, dude, if I could, don't you think I would have already? I don't even  _know_  if Cthulu actually  _could_  have killed me."

I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him

"What, that fucking pussy? Fuck him if he can kill you, I should be able to. I'm way fucking cooler than him dude."

Kenny starts to say something, I'm not sure what, but he's cut off, and suddenly gagging. I lean back, peeking around the corner. Cartman is leaning over my boyfriend, his hands on his throat, crushing it, crushing him. He leans forward and Kenny's legs buckle beneath him. His hands waver at his neck, over Cartman's fat, bloated fists, fighting not to fight him off.

I clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming, and I can feel tears and snot on my face. He can't die, I tell myself, believe him. You have to believe him. You  _have_  to believe him. I hear him gargle and shriek through his closing throat behind me. Believe him believe him believe him believe him, loud shuffling, kicking, slowing down,  _believe him believe him believe him BELIEVE HIM BELIEVE HIM BELIEVE HIM-_

and silence.

The sound of a kick to a still object.

Footsteps away.

Silence.

I turn to stare back at him, still, crumpled, lifeless.

_I do not believe him._

**A/N: I'd forgotten about American drinking laws being 21+. Oh well. Too late now. ¯\\_(** **ツ** **)_/¯**


	5. Red

**Erosion**

I wake up in my bed, anxious. I don't know why. I feel so on edge. My heart hurts, and my head hurts, my fingers are trembling and my chest feels cold. I don't know why.

I stand uncertainly, and my first thought is to text Kenny. I anxiously pull on my clothes, and can't wait any longer for a response. I call him.

"Hello?" He says, voice muffled through his phone's poor receiver, "Kyle? What's up dude?"

I sigh in relief, but I don't know why I'm relieved. "I... I don't know," I say truthfully, "I just... really needed to hear your voice. I was worried."

"Worried about what?" He says, and I can hear hidden interest in his voice.

"I don't know, I think..." I pause, "I think... something happened yesterday? But I don't... I don't remember."

"Do you remember  _anything_?" He asks with hope on his tongue.

I think.

"I remember... Cartman? He must have done something. I think about him and I get angry. Angrier than I  _usually_  am when I think about fatass," I add thoughtfully. I feel like the answers are there, just out of reach.

He sighs, "I died," He says quietly.

"Mm," I say, still thinking, "How?" I say.

"Cartman strangled me at school. I think," He pauses here for a second, "I think he actually broke my neck with his stupid fat hands."

I don't quite know what to say.

"I hate him," slips out, without my permission. I don't know why. I've always hated Cartman. Of course I hate Cartman. How could I not? Kenny knows I hate him. Why remind him?

"Just... don't... just leave him alone. I can handle him." Kenny says quietly.

"I... if you say so, Kenny." There's another pause at the end of the line. I am about to fill it, when he speaks.

"I'll see you at school. I love you." The line clicks dead. My breath catches in my throat, and I feel my heart thump against my ribs. Love?

Did he really?

Did I?

* * *

 

I waited by our lockers until the bell rang, and never saw him. I leaned against the cool metal, thumbing through old messages on my phone, just waiting.  _I'll see you at school. I love you._

He didn't come.

* * *

 

During lunch I went outside, to where he always gave his sister her lunch money, to see her waiting, as I had that morning. She looked around her, nervous, but there was no familiar purple blur that came to her. Kenny was not there. That was unusual.

After a few minutes, she looked upset, and dejected and hurt, and even from a distance it looked like she might cry. I stood up, trotting over, to smile at her.

"Hey! Kyle!" She said, wiping the wetness form her eyes, obviously pretending she wasn't crying.

"Hey Karen, you okay?" I asked, knowing full well she was not.

"Y-yeah, I'm- it's fine," she smiled fakely, "I was just, just waiting for someone."

I handed her my paper bag lunch. It was dry and kosher, but better than air and fountain water. She looks at me and frowns.

"No, no Kyle, I can't take that." She says. I take her hand and put it on the bag.

"Hey, maybe I'm just trying to impress your brother," I laugh, and she smiles, for real this time.

"Oh, shut up, dummy," She says, but she takes the bag, "Thank you."

I smile at her, and she turns away and around the corner, probably to sit with her friends. I feel warm and glad to have done it- I definitely still need to eat, my blood sugar always gets a bit low around this time. My house is a little ways away, but I think I can make it there, grab some food, and back in time.

I am thinking about the instant noodles in my family's pantry when the pipe connects to the back of my head, and suddenly, I am not thinking about anything.

* * *

 

I wake to darkness.

I'm bent at an awkward angle, and lying on what is obviously the floor. It's cold, and hard, like concrete. My head is swimming and feels like it was split open. My stomach feels empty, like it's going to fold in itself. I'm so hungry I feel nauseous, and I can feel scraps all over me. I try to stand, but I can't. My arms are behind me, with metal handcuffs digging into my wrists.

"Hello?" I say quietly, nervously, "Hello!?" I say, much louder, much more frightened.

There's a noise on the other side of the room. I squint in the darkness, my eyes adjusting. There's a dim shape a few yards away.

"Kyle?" A weak voice says, and I immediately recognize the dull backwoods twang of Kenny's accent.

"Kenny?" I ask back, and I hear a grunt of affirmation, "What happened?"

My eyes adjust further, and I can see orange in the darkness. It's definitely him.

"I... I don't know," He says shakily, "I got hit with something, and I thought... I thought I died, but I didn't. I didn't... I didn't know you were down here." His voice sounds weak, and quiet.

"How long have you been awake?" I ask.

"A f... a few hours, I think." He's pulling in these ragged breaths that fill my head with fear, despite the desperate wet throbbing at the back of my skull. I try to move forward, towards him, and find the handcuffs have a rope tied to them, leading to a pipe on the wall behind me. I have a few feet of moving range, but that's it.

"Hours? Oh, holy Jesus, dude. Can you move?"

"No," he says, very quietly, "My wrists are tied to my ankles. I can't... I can't move much."

"Hours..." I say, "Oh god, hours."

I hear an intake of breath, "Your diabetes." He says harshly. I swallow. No wonder I feel so awful.

"I'll get you out of here, Kyle, I'll get you out of here, I will," he says, voice shaking.

The light clicks on, and I swear in pain. It hurts my eyes and my head and I bow my eyes back to the ground, a string of curses falling from my lips and water falling from my eyes.

"Well hellooooo there, boys."  _Cartman._

"What the  _fuck_  are you doing, fatboy?" I yell, blinking my eyes open. My vision is wet and blurry. Everything is too bright, too painful.

"Shut up, Jewfag," He spits, and I follow his footsteps over to Kenny.

"So, maybe I can't kill you," he says, and Kenny swears, "but I can certainly keep you alive." He steps over to me, "And I bet you're wondering, 'ohhhh Eric, what am I, a poor dumb Jew, doing here? what did  _i_  do?'" He says the last bit in an obnoxious falsetto voice, and I grit my teeth.

"And what did you do?" He continues, "Other than be a Jew. And a fag."

When he kicks me, I don't even have the breath in me to swear. It's just a dull oomph, and I fall on my side.

"Kyle!" I hear Kenny cry, and I find my voice, letting out a choked sob. My stomach is already an empty black hole, and now it hurts a hundred times worse. Cartman laughs.

"What, aren't you going to save him?" Cartman says, and I notice he's turned away from me. Kenny swears. "You can't even save yourself," He says, quiet, dark.

All I hear is Kenny breathing, and me choking back tears. Everything hurts.

"We talked about this,  _Kinny,_ " Cartman spits, hate in his voice, " _We_  were friends.  _You_  aren't  _allowed_  to be a fag and you aren't  _allowed_  to fag it up with the  _Jew._ "

Kenny breathing.

Bleary eyed, I can see Cartman lean down, very close, grab kenny by his hair and lift him up. I almost don't hear him, it's such a low whisper, "The Jewfag is  _mine_ , Kinny." He drops him and stands back up. "And if I can't have him, nobody can. So I've brought some cheesey poofs and a rollie chair," he says, trotting over to both, "And I'm just going to watch him starve to death. Or whatever it is diabetic Jew faggots do when they die."

The chair creaks loudly when he sits. There's several minutes of heavy breathing and crunching. I feel like my consciousness is slipping again. I notice I'm slipping forward. I had been sitting up. Is Kenny yelling? I can't tell. My face is on the floor. It's so cool... and feels so good.

I hear a sharp noise, and sit up, blearily. My thoughts won't stay still, and I wonder if I have a concussion. Cartman stands up, yelling.

"No,  _mam_ , I'm fucking busy I can _not_  go to the store!"

Muffled voices from upstairs.

" _No mam don't come down here!_  Fine, Jesus, I'm going." He starts to walk away, then stops and turns back to us. He points a fat, bulbous finger at me, "Don't you fucking die until I get back, asshole."

He turns to Kenny, and so do I. He's seething, and I can see the hate in his eyes from here.

"And you. You neither." He says, and laughs, "Yeah, actually, do your best."

He stomps up the stairs. There is a moment of silence, and my head starts to droop again. I wonder what he's going to the store for. Did Ms. Cartman need something for dinner?

"Kyle." Kenny's voice brings my eyes back up. The hate in his eyes is gone, leaving behind only fear, "Kyle, it's going to be okay."

I cough, doubling over further. My head hurts...

"Kyle!" He says, more urgently, "I need you to look at me!" I do, my bones as heavy as lead, "It is  _going to be okay. You are going to be okay,_ " his breath and voice are shaky. "I keep telling you to believe me, and I know you don't. But right now  _you have to believe me._ " I frown.

"Believe...?" I choke out weakly, squirming forward, only to be caught by the rope I'd forgotten about.

"Yes," He says, and I hear a sob in the back of his throat, "I don't have a lot of time. I'm going to kill myself. I need you to  _stay awake._  No matter  _what happens,_  you need to  _stay awake, Kyle._ " I nod, then stop.

"Kill... no!" I yell, a brief flash of lucidity overtaking my mind. He shakes his head.

" _Kyle!_  I promise, I promise, I  _promise_  I will be fine. I need you to  _stay awake._  Do you trust me?"

I look at him, and the blood in his mouth and the fear in his eyes.

And I believe him.

I nod.

He swallows, "I love you." He says.

"love... too." I say, my voice labored. My everything hurts. It feels like there is a knife in my gut. Is there?

He leans upward, and it's obviously difficult for him, before slamming his head into the floor. I can't help but cry out in horror. After a moment, he shakes, leans up and does it again, harder this time. Blood is pouring from the concave hole in his foehead, and I can hear him sobbing.

The third one is weak, and he struggles, but when his face hits the ground, he doesn't come back up again.

"K...kenny?" I say weakly. I can feel hot tears on my face as the blood pools out around him.

I believe him. I have to believe him. I have to believe him.

My body is shaking, violently, and I turn away, then wrench myself back around, staring at his corpse.

"Believe," I whisper, focusing on the colour, even as the darkness tugs at the corners of my vision, "believe.

I have to. I have to. I have to. I have to. I have to.

I push back the darkness with the red and whisper my mantra over and over.

_"Believe. Believe. Believe."_


	6. Darkness

**Erosion**

Believe. Believe. Believe.

The tendrils of the darkness were pulling at my eyelids, begging me sweetly to rest. My head hurt. My insides hurt. My legs hurt, and my wrists, and my eyes and my mouth and my throat and my  _everything._  The cool concrete begged me to rest, to lay my face on it and let my consciousness go along with everything else.

_Believe._

Kenny's corpse rested on the other side of the room, still motionless, the blood no longer pooling. I kept my breathing even, trying to focus on the rhythmic beating of my heart against my ribs. Badump. Badump. Badump.

_Believe._

He's going to come back for me. The corpse in the corner is not him, not anymore. It's what he left behind, and he's going to break down that door and drag me to a hospital. He's going to be okay, and  _I'm_  going to be okay, and Kenny is going to kick Cartman's ass and let me run something sharp through his fat throat. I believe he'll come back. He'll come back for me. I  _have_  to believe.

The darkness beckons. I slip for a few moments (perhaps longer) and jerk back into awareness when the door slams.

"Okay, fags, I'm back, you better not have died on me!" I hate him. I hate his voice. I hate him.

He trods down the stairs, fat and heavy. Every footfall makes me hate him more.

When he reaches the bottom, he stops, staring at the body that was no longer Kenny's. With a curse, he waddles over, lifting the corpse's head and staring at it. He swears again.

"Goddammit you buttfucking cunt, what the  _fuck_  did you let him do that for?" He yells at me, I would respond, but my mouth isn't listening to me, "This is your fucking fault!" he yells, slamming the body's head into the ground with a sicking squelch-thud.

I think I blacked out again, but I wake to another foot in my side. I no longer have the energy even to cry.

I don't move when he kicks me again, other than the force that knocks me back a few inches, smearing blood (from my head) against the ground. I stare up at him, and realize, he's going to kill me. For real, this time. For all the things he's done to me, all the times he would let me die, and all the times he tried to have other people kill me, this time, this time he  _is_  going to do it.

"I'm gonna kill you, Kahl" he says. I'm right.

"That fucking white trash faggot is probably on his way right now, I can't have you get out of here." He goes back over to the orange body and pulls something out of it's pocket. When he gets closer, I see it's a switchblade.

"You were  _always_  my property." He hisses quietly, under his breath.

I wonder what my mother will think. She will probably cry, and react violently. She'll ignore Ike and start another war, but it won't bring me back. I wonder if my dad will be upset. I wonder if Ike will miss me. I wonder if Stan will speak at my funeral. I wonder what colour the flowers will be.

He presses the knife to my neck and I wonder who will be there. Would Stan be too upset to go? Would Butters be there? Wendy? Bebe? Craig? Token? Would my death be a convenient excuse not to go to school for a week for the people I  _sort of_  knew? Would Kenny stand at the funeral, face blooming the colours of the flowers surrounding him, and talk about me? Would he tell my parents what I did with him, or would I take that secret to my grave, hidden in red and darkness?

The metal is cool, and sharp. All the fear goes out of me.  _Kenny can't die. I at least have that._  I give into the darkness, and let my eyes slip closed.

I hear glass shatter, I hear thuds, but the darkness has me, and I slip from the world in peace.

* * *

 

I wake to rustling.

"K...?" I start, but my mouth feels thick, like it's stuffed with cotton. I blinked, trying to push myself up, but everything hurt. "Nn?" I grunt, my pitch rising. There's beeping noises, and I'm hot, and there's needles and wires coming from me, and it's  _bright_  and I-

"Kyle!" A voice says.

"Kenny?" I say, trying to push myself up.

"No, no, Kyle, it's Stan," He says, and my eyes come into focus. It  _is_  Stan. He looks concerned, and tired.

"What...?" I say, still confused. He gently pushes me back down.

"Cartman tried to kill you, dude," he hisses quietly, as if the words themselves are poison, "You were in a coma. Your blood sugar-" he swallows thickly, and looks around, "and then he, he-"

His eyes are on my throat. I reach one shaking hand up to touch the tightly wrapped bandages there.

"He missed your jugular..." Stan says, and I hear gratitude in his voice, "but... it was touch and go there for awhile. We didn't..." he trails off, and I see the same fear in his eyes that Kenny had. "We didn't think you were going to make it, dude."

My hand trails down from my throat, touching the wires and tubes coming from my body. I wonder if my face is blooming violets, and the wires are my roots.

"You... How long?" I ask him, he shakes his head.

"How long have I been here? Three... maybe four days?" He says. I can suddenly see the redness in his eyes, the dark circles. He's so tired.

"...Kenny?" I ask, and my head bursts with images.  _Red._  Blossoming forth up and outward like falling petals. The way his skull caved in. The way he looked at me and  _begged_  me to believe him. Tears well up in my eyes when a look I can't place crosses Stan's face.

"He..." he starts, his face scrunching up and I know. I know I shouldn't have believed. I was wrong.  _I can't die._  How  _stupid._  I let him die. I let him  _die._  It's all my  _fault._  My heart aches and my head hurts and I miss him already, "He saved you." He finishes.

What?

I must have said that out loud, because Stan continues.

"He just... He says Cartman had you both tied up, but he escaped. And he went back for you. Cartman..." He trails off, and I wait patiently. "Kenny broke back in, and he says he gave him a few broken ribs, but he was too focused on trying to save you, and Cartman got away. No one's seen him in days."

The door opens, and a nurse shoos him out of the room. Doctors. Talking. Beeping. Medication.

Where is Kenny?

* * *

 

They tell me I have to stay in the hospital. I'm used to that.

Stan goes home that day. He says his mother tells him he needs to take a shower and eat a real meal and sleep in a real bed. He looks worried, but I tell him I'm fine. He says he'll come back tomorrow.

Kenny slips in the window that night, his cape flowing behind him. I'm awake when he comes, but he slips in so quietly I pretend I'm asleep so he can wake me.

"Kyle?" He says, his voice heavy with concern and guilt. I smile at him. I'd spent the whole day worried, but here he is, whole and intact.

"Kenny," I say, simply.

His fingers brush the bandage on my neck delicately, and I flinch. He jerks his hand back like it was burned.

"I'm sorry-" He says, staring at his hands. His shoulders shake, "I'm so  _sorry_ , Kyle."

I shake my head, "It's okay," I say. It's so hard to talk, but I want to talk to him so  _badly._

"It's not  _okay_  Kyle!" He cries. I reach my hands up, towards his face, but they get caught on the wires. He leans in closer, and lets me push back his hood, lets me tug down his mask.

"I'm okay," I say, again, simply. I am okay. It's going to  _be_  okay. This is bad, but not the worst. I've been in and out of hospitals my whole life. I'll leave here uncomfortable and eventually I'll have nothing but a cool scar I can tell stories about. Cartman has done worse things to me than a nick on the neck. I want to tell him all this. I want to tell him this is in no way the worst thing that has happened to me, this is in no way his fault, I in no way blame him. I wish the bruises on his face were as easily wiped away as the tears in his eyes.

"This was my fault," He says, "I let my guard down and I  _let_  you get hurt. You don't... you don't even know the things I would do for you. Have done. I love you," He whispers, and I think it's almost to himself.

"I remember," I say, and rub his cheek. He freezes.

"You remember?" He just stares at me, confused, not daring to believe me the way I believe him.

I pull my hand away, and tap my forehead, "You died."

I can't tell how he feels. Afraid? Relieved? He stares at my for a long time, then trips over himself as he stumbles back to the window and out.

My hands feel empty.

* * *

 

I finally go home, and my whole body aches. They gives me a lot of medication to take, but they always give me a lot of medication to take. My mother frets and worries, asking about my injuries and condemning Kenny as a bad influence. I'm too exhausted to argue with her.

I can't go back to school yet, and I can't stay awake long. I try drawing Kenny on a sheet of notebook paper while I lie in bed late at night. I'm not very good. I wonder if Kenny will give me lessons.

* * *

 

I haven't seen him in weeks. I watch the news a lot, though. Every day, it feels as if there are more bits on him. I don't think he does anything else. And with every day, the footage becomes more and more graphic. He's not just catching criminals anymore. Not just swooping in and kicking a mugger in the face and zip tieing him to a pipe. He's pumelling them, over and over, screaming. I want to find him. I want to talk to him. I want to touch the flowers on his face again and tell him he's beautiful and okay and I am okay and everything is okay.

The less I see of Kenny, the less I think about Cartman. The less I remember no one has seen him. The less I think about anything else. I can't focus on my schoolwork, I can't focus on my family. All I can think about is Kenny, slamming his fist into a stranger's face and screaming that it's not okay.

* * *

 

It's been weeks since I've seen him out of his costume. My parents never let me out of their sight, and I barely even saw Stan. He called me on a Tuesday night. I'd stayed home from school, exhausted and in pain.

"Kyle?" Even through the clipping speaker of my phone I can hear the concern and distress in his voice.

"What's up, dude? Did I miss something important?"

"K..." He stumbles over his words and pauses suddenly, "Kenny came to school today."

"He did?!" I cry, and I find myself unable to control the desperation that creeps into my sore throat.

"Yeah... He... well. When I say he came to school, I mean, during lunch he broke a window and climbed in the room during third period and started shaking down screaming about Cartman."

"Wh... what?!"

"Yeah, dude, he just broke the window and started like, shaking people down. He straight up tackled Butters. He's freaking out."

"He... he attacked Butters? He's  _friends_  with Butters!"

"I mean, he's fine. You know, it's Butters."

" _STAN. HE ATTACKED BUTTERS._ " There's a break in the conversation while I choke on my throat and the pain in it. When I finish, he continues undeterred.

"He was... well, he was in his Mysterion costume."

I swear. What an idiot. I hate him. I love him. I hate him.

* * *

 

It's dark out. I check my clock. 3am. Perfect.

I slip out from under my covers and my feet hit the floor. The floor is still hard and uncomfortable, the blood stains have set terribly. I'm already dressed, and ready. My parents are asleep, I'm certain, and the only time they leave me alone is while they sleep.

I make it outside easily. Kenny's house is only four down from mine and it's a brisk walk there. I head around to the back of his house, to his window. I didn't really expect him to be there, but he was. In his orange parka. He looked fragile and new.

I tap on the glass. He stirs, and I tap again, a bit louder. He sits up, but still doesn't look quite at the window. I push up on it- it's open.

"Kenny!" I hiss, and he freezes, whipping around to look at me. His mouth moves quietly- my name. "Kenny, if you don't come out here and talk to me, then you better let me in." He looks around, then his head falls into his hands. I sigh, and start to pull myself in the window- but my body won't have it, and I find myself making more noise then I want.

He pushes me back out gently.

"Just go around front, I'll open the door," He sighs. I do so.

I'd forgotten how filthy his house is. The cracked paint, the matted carpet. The torn couch and greasy stains.

I follow him back to his room in silence.

"Okay, now, you need to talk to me. You need to talk to me right now," I say, shutting his door. He ignores me, walking over to his closet. "What are you doing?"

He pulls out his Mysterion costume.

"No, no-" I say, stepping forward, and he yanks it away, staring me down. My hand falls. He pulls the mask over his face first, with a sigh. Relief?

"Okay," he says, "What?"

"What? What?! Are you kidding me, Kenny? What the  _fuck_  do you mean 'what'?!"

He shrugs, and slips off his pants. I blush immediately, and even though he pulls on a new pair, I can't keep looking.

"Stan called last night. He said you attacked Butters."

"Yeah, I did."

"Why!?"

"I thought he might know where Eric is."

"Who gives a shit where he is, dude?"

Kenny freezes, his head caught in his shirt. He yanks it down, and grabs my face in his hands. His face and mine are so close I can feel his breath on my skin.

"I care. I care, Kyle. I won't let him hurt you. Not again," he lets go, and returns to his costume.

"Dude, Cartman hurt me  _weeks_  ago. You're hurting me  _right now,_ " I say, imploring him to  _stop acting like a fucking crazy person._

He froze again, "No- no, dude, you don't- he's not going to give up, he's going to come back-" are his hands shaking? "He's going to come back for you. I can't die, Kyle. I can't die, but you can. I shouldn't-" his head collapses in his hands and he tugs at his hair. His voice sounds terse and stressed, like he's holding back tears, "I shouldn't have let you kiss me. I shouldn't have. I just wanted it  _so badly_." He  _is_  crying.

I'm not sure what to say. I touch his back gingerly, and he flinches, pulling away.

"I just wanted you  _so badly..._ " he says quietly, "And I put you in danger..."

Damn him. I pull him into a hug, "It  _is_  okay, dude. It's  _going_  to be okay. I promise."

He just cries.

* * *

 

He's still not at school the next day.

* * *

 

At lunch, I go visit Karen. I made two lunches today. They're both kosher of course, everything in my house is, but she's so happy to have it. She hugs me around the waist and thanks me, a lot.

"Do you know when my brother is coming home?" She asks, looking up at me with wet eyes.

I frown, "He's not been home?"

"No!" She cries, burying her face in my jacket, "I'm so worried. I hope he's okay. I hope he's not- not-" her words become indistinguishable.

"Oh, no, no, Karen," I say, prying her face off my stomach, "He's  _fine_. Your big brother isn't going anywhere. He's just... really stressed out right now."

She sniffles, "My brother  _and_  my angel are missing. I feel like  _everyone_  abandoned me." My heart breaks for her.

"Well, I haven't," I say, and she's quiet, looking up at me in confusion, "As long as I'm dating your brother, you're  _my_  sister, too. How about I pick you up after school and we go catch a movie to take your mind off things, okay?"

She looks genuinely surprised, "You mean it?" She says, and I can hear the hesitancy in her voice. Her and her brother both deserve so much more than life gave them.

"Of course I do," I say, "I'll pick you up out front after school, okay? Just wait out here for me."

She smiles, or at least, I think she does, because she buries her face in my stomach again, thanking me over and over and over.

"You're the second best big brother in the world, Kyle!" She says, before she turns and runs back to her lunch period. my heart warms up.

I call my mother to tell her I won't be home on time. She's pissed, and argues, but I'm 18 years old and I haven't asked for time alone in weeks. She lets me have the afternoon, as long as I call when I get to the theatre and when the movie ends.

* * *

 

There's a line outside of the middle school. I hadn't considered it, but I probably should have. I tap my thigh, annoyed, waiting behind a large white minivan that just won't fucking  _move_.

I see Karen standing at the edge of the pick up area, peering out. I wonder if she knows what my car looks like, but I doubt it. She looks hopeful, and nervous. Like she half expects me to not come. I wonder if she's afraid to believe someone other than Kenny would care about her, the same way I was afraid to believe Kenny couldn't die.

I lean out of my car, and honk the horn. Everyone looks over at me, including her, I wave, and she smiles. I point out at the road, I'll just go around the line and pick her up on the other side of the line of cars. She smiles and nods. She steps forward, and I turn to go around the minivan.

I hear an engine rev.

By the time I'm out from behind the minivan, it's too late. She's spread out on the ground like an angel from an old painting, red seeping out around her like silk.

" _Karen!_ " I shriek, ripping open my car door and running to her. She's not moving.

"G-ga-" she stammers, mouth red and wet. I lean over her. Am I screaming? Is that me? "Guar- ardian an-angel- where-?" she says, and falls still.

I look up in time to see the back side of Cartman's red jeep vanish around a corner.


	7. Heroics

**Erosion**

The winter winds in South Park are bad enough, but the way they're whipping up in a tornado around me is a million times worse than a typical Colorado evening. The icy chill bites into my face, and I can feel red prickling against my skin. There's snow in my boots and a scream in my throat.

The skies part like the seas in my books, but right now I can't quite recall the old stories despite their relevance.

" _Kenny!_ " I shriek, my throat cold and hoarse and strained. I wonder if he can hear me above the wind. He stands far away, clutching a conch shell in his hand. He slams it into the ground a few times, and a tree- then he looks at me. He's so far away, I can't see his eyes, but I can feel them, boring into me with that same familiar fear. He's not afraid to die. He's never been afraid to die. He's afraid  _I_ will. Has he always been this afraid? Did I not notice, or did I just not care?

"It's okay!" He yells, and I shouldn't be able to understand him through his hood and the wind, but I do, "I can use my head!" He shouts. Something bubbles up in my chest, but I don't have time to place the emotion. I don't have time to do much but scream his name, because he slams his head into the shell on the ground and it shatters. He crumples like paper beside it, and even through the burst of orange light and the screaming white winds and the black skies and blue-purple at the corners of my vision all I can see is the thin drabble from red, complimenting the dull, glassy blue of his eyes as they close.

I am eight years old when this happens. Why is it ten years later that I remember it?

* * *

 

I wake with a start, my head jerking out of my numb and tingling hand as I look around, confused. The room is dark and quiet, save for the faded pinpoints of coloured light on the monitors and their steady beep-beep-beeping.

Karen still hadn't moved. I don't know why I stay here. Having to watch a little girl I had  _just_  promised to love melt into a hotel bed over the course of a week was painful enough, knowing that I was skipping school and waiting for her to wake up and her own  _family_  was not was worse.

Not even Kenny had come.

As far the news was concerned, Mysterion and the Coon were at full out war. Another of Cartman's stupid games where strangers die. Cartman promoting gang violence, blackmailing and paying people off to make things worse. Did he even have a goal? Not as far as I could tell.

He sends one group to hold up a bank and another to steal the profit form the first group. He pays a group to kidnap someone and blackmails a second to rescue them. What's the point? Anarchy? Is he trying to run Kenny dry? Is he trying to piss me off? He's succeeding at all three.

And then Ke- Mysterion just running through the streets screaming and pointlessly smashing in the faces of people he didn't know while his sister faded into machinery and wires and medications and her  _coma._

I close the textbook in front of me. I am not studying today.

* * *

 

I am home, rummaging through my closet in the dead of night. I barely remember what my costume looked like all those years ago. I try my best to remake it, but a grey hoodie and a kite are about as good as I can do. I put on some belts for good measure, and try to look at least a little respectable. It's a sad attempt, but I wear it with all the pride I can muster. What a silly alter ego.

* * *

 

I rip him backward and away from the man he's pummeling. I think he's unconscious. By the amount of blood on his face, he's certainly had enough. He looks at me, almost like he doesn't recognize me.

"Kenny?" I say, holding his arm, but he just stares at me, his eyes darting back and forth over my face like it's unfamiliar. I touch his cheek and he softens, "Kenny, it's me," I say, and start to pull his mask down. He hits me.

I stumble back at the force and feel pain shoot through the white-pink scar on my neck down my throat and through my chest. I swear. So does he.

"What the  _fuck_  do you want, Kyle?" He spits, shaking, and I can see him warily eyeing my outfit. I cough, and breathing heavily. Okay. Mask stays on. I can play this game. I stand up straight and drop my voice low, the way he does.

"Mysterion!" I say, and my voice sounds like shit, I'm so embarrassed, "My name is  _The Human Kite._  No secret identities." His eyes flash with something, and I power on while he's distracted, "The Coon has just been toying with you. You need to stop playing into his games. You  _know_  that. He's only doing this because he wants a reaction from you. There's a little girl in the hospital right now who needs her brother." He snarls, and his hands go up.

"I'm  _needed_  here," he says defensively, "Without me, this city would crumble. There's no one else to fight The Coon."

I shake my head, "He's only playing the way he is because you're playing by the rules. The Coon will do whatever he wants," my fingers touch my neck, "And  _this_  was not your fault. It was not  _my_  fault. It was  _Cartman's_  fault, and playing his games isn't helping anyone but him. If Karen dies without you you will  _never_  forgive yourself-" He snaps and takes another swing at me. I know it's coming this time, and even with my slow reflexes I manage to dodge. His blow is sloppy, emotional. I jerk forward in a tackle and slam into him.

He's knocked off balance and we both go sprawling into the slick wet pavement screaming.

I don't know how many times I hit him or how many times he hit me. I was just so  _mad_. How  _dare_  he tell me he loves me and vanish. How  _dare_  he be out here playing superhero while his sister dies. How dare he. How dare he.

It only stopped when I finally crawl away, a hand in the air while I wretch and cough, my throat weak and fragile and fiery. I vomit all over the sidewalk, and all I can think is that I overestimated my body again. It's hard to hear through the blood in my ears, but I think he is crying.

By the time I can breathe again, he's gone.

I hate him.

* * *

 

I wake the next day sore and exhausted and filled with hate and anger. I will not let him do this. He can play tragic hero if he wants, but I can change the story. I pull a dusty sewing machine out of my closet and set out to touch up my costume.

The blood stains are particularly hard to get out. No wonder my carpet still looks the way it does. Simply not worth the effort once it's set.

* * *

 

When I stride into the news station, I feel ridiculous with a kite strapped to my back and hockey padding on my arms and legs. I can feel eyes on the fresh bandages on my neck and the headwrap covering my hair. I look worse than Cartman and Kenny in their famously ridiculous crime fighting gear.

All this superhero news has been so good for business that when I ask to make a statement, they just let me. No credentials or anything. This  _is_  South Park, I suppose.

"Coon!" I say into the camera, clearing my throat. Everyone is staring at me. "This has gone on long enough. We both know you don't give a shi-" I stop, realizing this is public broadcast, "crap, about Mysterion. I don't know if you're punishing him for us or trying to get to me, but we both know what you want is a fight with  _me_. Not these stupid superhero games."

The news casters are all scribbling furiously. Vultures. I swallow and notice my fingers have strayed to my throat where he cut me. I tighten my fingers at my throat with resolve.

"Meet me on the school roof at eight tonight. It's the end of the line, Cartman." I turn swiftly, and despite my seriousness I can't help but dwell on how cool I must look. I walk straight out of the studio while they yell questions after me.

* * *

 

I visit Karen in the hospital. Still asleep.

Her blankets are tucked to tightly. It looks unnatural and uncomfortable. I tug them out some, but the gesture just tugs at my heart, and it hurts.

"I promise I'll bring him back," I say to her, and the machines beep. I don't cry this time.

* * *

 

I leave a notebook full of goodbyes in my room in case I fuck this up. I don't plan to, but Cartman's never as stupid as I wish he was.

* * *

 

I have to say, even if I don't make it out of here, it might be worth it to see Cartman's blubbery ass squirm from the drainpipe over the side of the roof dressed as a fucking racoon. Sure, I have a kite strapped to my back, but that has nothing on lard boy.

"Are you gonna take all night?" I yell at him and he grunts angrily, before lugging himself all the way up.

"Shut up, Human Kike!"

" _Kite._ " I spit tersely.

He just laughs.

"So is this it then? No big finish?" He says, crossing his arms, "No poor boy clinging to the roof behind you ready to jump out and save the day? No snipers in the trees? Fucking  _nothing,_  Jewfag? Frankly I'm insulted." I sigh.

"Let's just fucking talk, you piece of shit. What the  _fuck_  do you want?"

He laughs again, "Want, Kahl? I don't  _want_  anything. What could I possibly want?"

"Shut  _up,_  fatboy! You tried to kill me and you put Kenny's sister in the  _hospital!_ " He scoffs and shrugs, and I keep going, "You think you're getting out of this? You think when you're through playing your shitty game you can talk your way out of this and everything will go back to normal?"

"No, Kahl, I don't thi-"

"Oh, shut the  _fuck up!_ " I yell, I can't even bear to listen to his egocentric bullshit, "Kenny's gone off the fucking deep end, I can't run twenty meters without vomiting and his sister is  _in a literal coma._  No one is  _ever_  forgiving you! Shit isn't even going to be the way it was again!" He shifts and eyes me with discomfort. "You put a little girl in the hospital and you drove my boyfriend fucking insane. He doesn't even respond to his own  _name_  anymore. What I want to know is  _what you want._ "

"I- uh-  _Kahl_ -" He stammers, dropping his hands. He won't meet my eyes. Suddenly his jerks his head up and looks me dead on, "I want  _you_ , faggot."

I swallow bile, "Ex _cuse_  you?"

"I want you, jewfag!" He snarls, stepping towards me, "You're fucking  _mine!_  I  _own_  you, you dumb piece of shit!" He keeps walking and suddenly I'm uncomfortable, I take a step back, "You were  _always_  mine! You are  _mine_  and I want you to be fucking  _miserable!_  That traitor faggot Kenny isn't allowed to make you happy, because I didn't say you could be!" He keeps walking and I'm out of room. Fuck.

That's when Kenny heaves himself over the side of the building. It's a few brief paces before he connects with Cartman and they go spinning out of control, tumbling wildly against the roof. I'm startled and it takes me a few moments to react. Kenny is screaming something unintelligible, it's hard to hear when his voice is going in and out between his voice and his alter ego's.

I don't pull him off. He just keeps punching, and I wonder briefly if he would actually kill Cartman. Probably. That thought is quickly followed by a muzzle flash and abang, and Kenny goes limp. Cartman pushes him off and Kenny and his purple cape crumple to the ground, a broke picture frame, purple and red.

I don't care if he's alright. I don't care if he comes back to life. I'm so sick of his psychosis, I'm so sick of waiting in hospital rooms alone and I'm sick of being the Mary Jane in a shitty movie knockoff of a decent comic. Mary Jane didn't even  _matter_  until that shitty movie. I hate being her. I hate being in the position. I hate being a prop. I hate being ignored.

His turn.

Cartman leans on his hands, breathing heavily as I walk toward him. As I get closer, the red dripping from his face and mouth are brighter and easier to see. I'm only a pace away from him when he finally looks up and sees the gun  _I_  had had the foresight to take from Kenny's hiding spot that afternoon.

I shoot him in the head and I feel nothing.


	8. Loss

**Loss**

 

I wake to ringing.

My clock radio cries out beside me, urging me into disgruntled consciousness. I press the button and roll over, staring at the ceiling. It's white, crackled. I search the cracks for images to distract myself and put off getting up a few more seconds; but my eyes never settle on anything.

I tug the blankets off of myself, and swing my legs over the side of the mattress. My feet touch soft carpet, and I stand, before tromping over to the open window to close it. It's too cold to let the wind seep in any longer.

My kite and disheveled, bloodstained costume sits on the desk, reminding me of what I did. I hadn't even bothered to hide it- I wonder briefly if that means I wanted to be caught. Or if I just didn't care. Or if I knew I simply wouldn't be.

I broke the kite in half so I could fit it in my trashcan, along with the costume. The gloves and sleeves were dark red with Cartman's blood and hard- they'd been drying all night. A total loss.

I tighten the drawstrings on the bag, and just like that, the red is gone. My room has gone back to clean green walls and soft, unmarred white carpet. No bloody costumes, no angry guns or missing boyfriends. No comatose children here. I breathe in and let the momentary feeling wash over me, before I stand to take out the trash.

* * *

 

I tell my mother my throat hurts and stay home from school. I settle in for a long day on the couch. My mother stays home with me and insists on making matzah ball soup- she says I'll feel better if I eat a more traditional Jewish diet. I protest, but I like the attention. I like worrying about matzah instead of boyfriends who let you rot in hospital beds and little girls who rot in hospital beds and monsters that put little girls in hospital beds to rot without their brothers.

There's a news bit on tv about Cartman. It's brief. Cartman has hurt everyone in this town in some way at least once- the reporter says it's a tragedy, but you can see the smile in his eyes when he says the police have no leads.

I think I should feel something, but I don't.

* * *

 

Stan calls me about Cartman. He seems relieved, and wants to know if he should come over. I tell him no, it's fine. I don't tell him my hand in Cartman's end.

Then he asks about Kenny, and I don't know what to say. He asks if we're okay.

I don't know how to answer him.

Probably not.

* * *

 

I'm walking to Stan's that evening when I see him again. No billowing cape, no dishevelled mask. No stupid underpants.

Orange park, hood down, dirty yellow-blond hair matted against the nape of his neck and the sides of his face. Sitting out by Stark's Pond, just staring out the tiny ripples in the water. Just staring.

I sit down beside him, but he doesn't look at me.

There's a long silence, before the words slip between his pale, chapped lips, his face unstirring, eyes fixed out on the gentle water lapping the shoreline.

"Karen's gone." The words are quiet, but strong. It's an acknowledgement, not a question.

Finally, I feel something. My chest aches, and the air goes out of me, but he doesn't move.

"I kept telling myself," he continues, "that I would go wait with her, when she was safe. That once Eric was dead, I would go sit with her until she woke up, even if it took years, I would wait." His voice breaks suddenly, and his head collapses into his hands, shoulders heaving with the effort of keeping the hurt in his chest and out of his eyes and his voice, "But Eric's  _dead_  and he was dead too  _late."_

 _"_ Kenny..." I say, because no other words come to me.

"My little sister is  _dead_  because I was too busy feeding my own ego to protect her-" he stands up suddenly, ripping his mask from his pocket and holding it up to scream at it, "Is this all you are? Is that it? You're  _nothing!"_  He balls the mask up as he shrieks the words, throwing it into the lake. It goes farther than I thought it would, and it rests on the water, eyeholes up, glaring at him accusingly. _  
_

His heart and his knees give out, and his legs buckle, depositing him on the ground to sob like a child.

I don't know what to do. I don't know what to say. All of the hate, the anger, the bitterness- it's not exactly gone, but it's certainly not in me at the moment.

All there is is emptiness.

Karen died alone.

I stand up, and lean down to where he is and touch his back, and he immediately sits up, grabbing me and shoving his face into the fabric of my jacket, muffling his sobs. I put my arms around him as he shakes, speaking near incoherently.

"She was- was- she was the  _most_  important thing in my world-" he cried, "She was the  _only_  constant. She was  _everything._  And now- and- and now-  _now_ -" I tightened my grip, "The  _only_  place I can't follow her. I would go to the  _ends_  of the  _earth_  for her oh  _god,_ Kyle- I- she's-"

I just hold him while he cries, "I wish I could die, I wish I could die" over and over again. Finally I pull him back, sharply.

"No!" I say sternly, forcefully, "You are not allowed to die, Kenny. She would  _want_  you to go on. You can't do that to her." His sobs do not stop, but they drop in volume, and he pulls back, a look of apprehension and confusion on his face.

"...I... I die all the time," He says, narrowing his eyes warily.

"Oh, god, Kenny," I say, touching his face, "Not that again. Not now."

He stands up suddenly, cries stifled, eyes wide as dinner plates.

"You don't remember anymore," he hisses, and I just stare at him.

"Remember what?"

His face completely falls. His whole body goes with him, as if the light in his eyes simply clicked out.

He didn't say anything, he just took a slow, purposeful step back, then turned to his left, toward the water.

I don't know why I didn't stop him, as he stepped silently into the water, and kept going. It must have been frigid, with ice lapping at first his ankles, then his knees, his waist, his stomach. He stood in front of the mask, before plucking it from the water. It was dripping icy water, but he wrapped it around his eyes and stood in the water, facing the sunset, his back to me, water dripping from his face and his neck, standing up to his midsection in icewater.

He bent forward slowly, and vanished under the water entirely. He never came back up.


	9. Endgame

**Endgame**

Karen's funeral was a simple affair. The McCormick family didn't have a lot of money to spare on the living, let alone the dead. I spoke briefly, and Carol stood and spoke a few words before she dissolved into hacking sobs and Stuart stood up and helped her limp away.

Kenny didn't come.

* * *

 

I don't go to Cartman's. Whether it's out of guilt or because I simply hate him I don't know, but I run into his mother at the supermarket. She thanks me for being Eric's friend through it all, before she breaks down crying and I run away.

I lock myself in my room for the rest of the day.

* * *

 

I think Stan knows. He keeps staring at me, suspicious and uncomfortable, and he doesn't speak to me, I find it unfair, not like he's never shot anyone. Not like he stopped talking to cartman just because  _cartman_  killed someone.

God, South Park is fucked up.

* * *

 

My mother spends an entire dinner telling us what a blessing it is to have Mysterion gone. She says he was a terrible influence on us, and that they'll probably find him dead and chopped up in a dumpster somewhere, and it will be a harsh lesson to the rest of us.

She doesn't understand why I'm crying, and I don't tell her.

* * *

 

It was actually a few weeks before I saw him again. It was odd, walking around South Park and not running into him. Our town is so small, I've grown accustomed to seeing everyone in it on a nearly daily basis. But there was no orange parka, there was no purple cloak.

And then, quite suddenly, he was on the news again. Mysterion spotted in Denver. Mysterion spotted in Colorado Springs. Mysterion spotted in South Aurora. Every time I turned on the tv, he was somewhere else. There wasn't any pattern to it, though I tried to find one.

It was only when I brought it up to Stan that he mentioned that the list of cities he was seen in was in the same order as the bus list outbound from South Park.

So here I am, standing in the bus station with a few hundred dollars and a backpack full of clothes and toiletries, hands jittering nervously at my side, praying no one notices I should be in school. I worry about potential scholarships and my grades and my family, but I don't worry enough that I turn around and go home.

Westminster is next on the bus list. The ticket isn't expensive, and that surprises me, but I quell the trembling in my legs and step on the bus anyway.

* * *

 

I don't find out until I'm standing in the lobby of a 7 Days Inn that you have to be 21 to rent a hotel room. I've never heard anything more ridiculous in my life and tell them so, but they still won't give me a room.

I'm near tears as I turn to leave, terrified and angry, when the girl sweeping in front of the elevators touches my arm gently and informs me that there's an all-night movie theatre a half mile down the road, and I can buy a ticket for $11.50 and no one will ask me to leave if I fall asleep. I thank her.

I've never done anything like this before. I've always had the safety net of my parents or my friends there- if I couldn't stay with family, there was stan and stan's family. Even without those, I had money and people who could lend me money- people to help me check into hotels and walk down dark streets unafraid.

I wonder if this was how Kenny usually felt on the frigid South Park nights that he couldn't go home.

* * *

 

I can't sleep past 6am, the loud black and white film with screaming heroines drags me into consciousness and I feel compelled to leave, but I have nowhere to go.

I wander aimlessly down the street for an hour or so before my backpack becomes too heavy and I dip into a McDonald's for breakfast. The cashier seems annoyed by my presence, but give me my egg mcmuffin once I've paid for it.

I spend a little too much time sitting in the booth eating it, and their glares make me uncomfortable enough to leave before they ask me too.

* * *

 

I try asking a few strangers if they've seen Mysterion, but they brush me off. The waitress at Denny's is kinder- I buy a coffee so I can get out of the cold and off of my tired feet. I ask her about Mysterion- I tell her he's a friend of mine and I need to find him. She hasn't heard anything, but she opens her phone and checks the local news for me. There's nothing, but she smiles and says, maybe tonight, as she refills my cup.

It tastes bitter and metallic, but it's better than the taste of blood in my mouth and bile at the back of my throat I get when I think about my mother's chastising voice, when I think about Stan's accusing eyes, when I think about Cartman's mother's sobs.

I hate coffee.

* * *

 

The street is cold, and it's dark, and my belly rumbles and begs me to go get food, but I think of how much I've already spent on bus tickets and coffee and egg mcmuffins and realize I need to budget carefully.

The city is strange and smelly at night- and unlike my quiet mountain town, there are no stars here. Just endless inky blackness that stretches out above me, mocking the colours in my life.

I don't know what I was thinking, coming here. This is the stupidest idea I've ever had. What makes me think I could  _possibly_  find him here? I don't even know he  _was_  coming here- it could have been a coincidence, maybe he's already been here and left, and even if he was here, this was a  _huge_ city, and-

And there he was.

I don't notice him until he was almost right up on me- out of his orange parka and in a grey hoodie with the hood down and his face clean and unbruised and unbroken I barely recognize him, but he recognizes me. He nearly falls on his face spinning around to bolt. But basketball is good for your legs and I am not the bookish diabetic weakling people tend to assume I am- it takes a few blocks, but I catch up with him, and when I manage to grab the fabric of his sweatshirt and yank him back, the fight goes out of him, and he just stops.

"Kenny!" I say, panting, as I turned him around. He looks down, and away from me.

He still has his ratty black eyemask tied around his face. It looks particularly ridiculous next to his normal clothes. He mumbles something, quiet and unintelligable.

"What?" I asked, trying to guide his eyes back up to mine.

"I said," he sighs, and swats my hand from his arm, "Don't call me that name."

I blink, "Wha? But you  _are_  Kenny?" He shakes his head harder and looks up.

"I said, don't  _call_  me that name!" He hisses, and I notice people were starting to stare as they walked by.

"Okay, okay," I said, my hands up, palms out, defensively, "What should I call you then?" He tapsthe mask, and I nod..

"Okay. Mysterion?" I ask, hesitant, and he nods, shoulders dropping again. "Okay... okay. That's okay," I say.

"It's not okay," He says, shaking his head, "You shouldn't be here."

"K- Mysterion, I came to bring you  _home._ " I say, and he tenses back up.

"I don't have a home. South Park is  _not_  my home, South Park was  _never_  my home and it will  _never_  be my home  _again._ " He growls.

I raise my hands back up quickly, "No, no, okay, okay. It's okay. We're okay. I'm just here for you, then. Where are you staying?" I ask cautiously, and he shakes his head.

"Wherever I drop. It's not like it matters."

"Ken- Mysterion!" I cry, exasperated, "Your life matters!"

He just laughs. I frown at him and feel the hot tears prickle the back of my eyes again.

"No, no, I'm sorry," Mysterion says, but he's smiling now but it's weird and it makes me uncomfortable, "It's just funny. I'm only here until I get killed, at which point, I'm onto the next city. There's no point in settling anywhere."

"The immortal thing again?" I sigh, crestfallen.

He just keeps smiling.

* * *

 

He's been sleeping mostly on roofs and stairwells, but I tell him about the heated theatre and he follows me back that night. He has no money, so I pay for his ticket. I wonder how he's been eating.

We're the only ones there, and I almost expect him to just pick a seat and immediately go to sleep, ever efficient, but he doesn't. He sits next to me, in the dead center of the theatre, kicks his feet up on the chair in front of him, and he stares intently at whatever old black and white film is playing.

I'm too busy watching  _him_ , though.

I wonder if I should call my parents, and tell them where I am, or his parents, or Stan, or the police. I'm worried that even if I get him home, he'll just run again, and I won't find him this time. I wonder if I even want to go home.

To my surprise, after half an hour, he speaks.

"I  _am_  immortal, you know. You used to remember."

I stare at him.

"Ke... You're just going through a rough patch, man."

He sighs.

After a moment, he frowns, then leans over me to touch the scar on my neck, still bright, but less so.

"How did you get this?" he asks, intently.

I knit my brows together, thinking, confused by the murkiness of such a recent and important memory, "Cartman. He knocked me out with a pipe at school and tied me up in his basement."

"I was there." He said quietly, staring at me from behind his mask.

I nod, "Yeah... yeah, you were. You were there, and then, I guess I blacked out or something because you got out, and then you came back and kicked the shit out of him."

He nods, "I broke my skull on the floor, came back to life in my house, and ran all the way there. I barely made it in time. I didn't think you were going to make it."

I was startled by the bluntness of it. "I don't remember that part."

"I know."

I bite my lip, "You really believe your immortal, don't you?"

He nods slowly, looking back at the screen, but I can tell he's watching me.

"You know," he says quietly, "stranger things have happened. You used to believe me."

Staring at the screen, I could not recall watching him die, but I can remember, just barely, there, in the back of my mind, the faintest memory of a memory- remembering believing him. I don't even know if it's real, or if I just want it to be.

He leans back in the seat. "You used to love me, too."

I blushed at that and tensed up immediately. I did in fact remember that part.

"But I don't have time for mortals anymore," he continues, almost a whisper as he lays himself down on the seats, "I have too much to do. Too many people to save."

I pondered this. Post traumatic stress disorder? Not likely, he wasn't exhibiting the right symptoms.

I touch my chest, "I didn't stop loving you."

He doesn't answer.

"I don't believe you..." I started, and he tensed, "But I trust you." There was a pause, and he leaned back up on one arm to stare at me, as I tugged the zipper on my backpack, pulling out a dark green cape.

"If you can't be Kenny anymore," I whispered harshly, tugging the black facemask from the front pocket of my bag and onto my head, "Then I won't be Kyle."

He leaned up, silently, and kissed me. It was a light, delicate thing, an acknowledgement- not needy and strong like before. But it was there.

He pulled back and stared at me, grey petals of light from the movie reflecting on his face in a beautiful, familiar way.

The ocean may tug the sand of the beach away, eroding it, bit by bit, but the roots of the grass and flowers growing on it hold it together against the cold, unyielding waves.

Let me waste away with you.

_fin_


End file.
